Clifford married Connie, nevertheless, and had his month's honeymoon with her. It was the terrible year 1917, and they were intimate as two people who stand together on a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he married: and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close, he and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's `satisfaction`. Clifford anyhow was not just keen on his `satisfaction', as so many men seemed to be. No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And sex was merely an accident, or an adjunct, one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. Though Connie did want children: if only to fortify her against her sister-in-law Emma.
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk.Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper werewithin, covered with figures and calculations, without any note toshow to what they referred. The recurring words, 'water pressure'and 'pressure to the square inch' suggested some possible relationto a submarine. Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There onlyremained an envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. Heshook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager facethat his hopes had been raised.